Strike Back

EPILOGUE

As he walked back from the Gents, Porter glanced only briefly at the sparkling lights from the Christmas tree in the foyer of the Vauxhall Travel Inn. Some seasonal music was playing in the background, and outside he could see the beginnings of a hard frost starting to bite on the open ground. Doesn’t matter, Porter told himself with a smile of satisfaction. I’m not sleeping out there. Not tonight. Not any night.

He looked up at the bar. A friendly looking blonde was polishing some glasses, and a couple of business guys were settling into the second or third pint of the evening. In the fold of his pocket, Porter could feel a crisp roll of twenty-pound notes. Bar, he thought to himself. Plus money. For most of the last two decades there had been no doubt about what those two equalled.

A bender.

Nah, he told himself. Just leave it. You know where that road goes.

Sandy was waiting for him at the table. She looked like a million dollars, he thought proudly. It’s good to have the chance to get to know her properly.

He sat back down, poured some more non-alcoholic grape juice, and tucked into the pudding they’d ordered. Porter wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen the Travel Inn for a pre-Christmas dinner. Christ, it’s hardly the best food in London, he thought. And he knew better than most people that the guys in the kitchen all hated the bloke running the place. Still, there was something satisfying about spending an evening on this side of the rope rather than the other. It was another way of closing the books on his past life. And another way of reminding himself that he had started again.

‘How’s work?’ said Sandy.

Porter shrugged. ‘It’s good. I’m lucky to have it.’

For the last week, he’d been working as a driver for Sky TV, ferrying their studio guests to the west London headquarters. After coming out of the Lebanon with Katie he’d told her that he didn’t want any publicity. Just tell them an SAS guy came in and got you out, and that he didn’t want his name or face to be revealed since it might jeopardise future operations. She stuck to that end of the bargain, as he knew she would: it sounded more exciting when she told and retold the story on air anyway. The Firm had ferried them both back to London, and they’d spent a couple of days in debriefing. They said they hadn’t known about Collinson slipping the tracking device into his tooth. Porter wasn’t sure if he believed them, but there was no point in arguing about it now. The official line was that Collinson had been killed in a separate Hezbollah attack while looking for Katie. Sir Angus had been effusively grateful for bringing Katie back, and offered to find Porter a job in the organisation, but he’d turned him down. There was no way he wanted to go through that again, he told them. He just wanted to do something simple, earn a few quid, and stay sober. He mentioned it to Katie during one of their debriefs, and she fixed him up with the driving job at Sky. It suited him just fine. He’d found a small flat in Stockwell, he had the Sky Mercedes to get around in, and that was all he needed.

‘You get all sorts of people in the back of the car,’ he said.

‘Celebrities?’ asked Sandy.

Porter shrugged. ‘I probably wouldn’t recognise them even if they were.’

‘Let me buy you something, Dad,’ she said. ‘For Christmas.’

Porter laughed. He’d made sure the £250,000 was paid into their joint account, and then he’d taken his own name off it. He didn’t want the money, and he wasn’t sure he’d trust himself even if he had it. There was a lot of vodka you could buy with that kind of wedge. Sandy had her place at UCL, starting next September, and was planning a trip to Africa with one of her girlfriends during the summer holiday. She could use some of the money for that, use some to pay her tuition fees, then maybe use the rest to buy herself somewhere to live while she was at college. He’d started looking at some places for her. Maybe something that needed restoration. He could work on it when he wasn’t driving the car for Sky.

‘Just seeing you is enough,’ he said. ‘And knowing that you’re doing well.’

‘I’ll make it a surprise then,’ said Sandy.

Porter laughed. ‘I’ve had enough of those for a while, thanks.’

Porter glanced up at the waitress delivering the bill. Another Czech girl. He didn’t recognise her, but then they turned over very fast in this place. Most of them didn’t stick it for more than a couple of weeks, and this one would probably be gone after Christmas as well. ‘Who’s washing up tonight?’ Porter asked.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I don’t … understand.’

Porter put down the money for the bill, then peeled off another couple of twenties from the roll in his pocket. ‘Tell the guy he’s doing a great job, and give him this.’

The girl nodded, looked at him as if he was mad, then walked away.

Porter collected his coat, helped Sandy with hers, and together they stepped outside into the cold night. They walked for a while along the Thames, towards where Porter had parked the Mercedes. A wind was whipping across the river, blowing hard into their faces, and Porter pulled the collar up around his coat, protecting his skin. His shoulder had mostly healed now, and he’d had a couple of new teeth fitted where he’d lost them, but he knew he still had to take things easy. It would be several months before he was completely better.

Taking another twenty from his pocket, Porter paused to give it to a man lying on the ground close to Vauxhall Bridge. He had a rough, beaten-looking face, and he smelt of beer and blood. Give the money now, thought Porter. Because in a few months’ time you’ll probably have forgotten all about them. You’ll walk straight past them, as if they weren’t even there, just like everyone else.

‘Thanks, mate … Merry Christmas.’

‘And you too,’ said Porter.

He clicked the car keys, and the doors on the Mercedes lit up as the locks sprang open. He opened the door for Sandy to climb inside. He’d run her up to St Pancras and get her on the last train to Nottingham before going home to get some kip.

‘Next time we have dinner, maybe I can get Mum to come along,’ said Sandy. ‘Or perhaps you could come up on Boxing Day or something.’

Porter laughed, climbing into the driver’s seat and snapping the seat belt into its lock. ‘I don’t mind taking on the bloody Hezbollah,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to face your mother again.’

Porter glanced across the station forecourt. Last time he’d stepped across it, someone had tried to run him down. Now he knew it must have been one of Collinson’s men: the bastard had known exactly where he was going, and wanted to stop him ever getting out to the Lebanon and finding out about what happened all those years ago. He checked the cars. There were no drivers sitting anxiously at their wheels. Collinson is dead, Porter reminded himself. That’s all finished with now.

He opened the door on the Mercedes, fired up the engine and pulled the car gently out into the road. It was just after nine, and he was done in for the day. All he wanted to do was catch some sleep.

‘Did she buy that story about you just being a driver for Sky?’ said Layla.

Porter looked round. She was sitting in the back seat, dressed in a crisp black suit, and with a pair of dark glasses dropped over her eyes.

‘It’s not a story,’ Porter snapped.

She leant forward, and he could smell a trace of perfume on her neck. ‘You work for us, Mr Porter,’ she said. ‘The driving job is useful cover. It will make people think you’re living a normal life.’

‘I’m finished with soldiering, I told you that.’

‘We don’t pay two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for one week’s work,’ she said. ‘What do you think this is? Goldman Sachs —’

‘We had a deal,’ said Porter.

‘And we want to get our money’s worth,’ said Layla. ‘Or would you rather we took it all back, and Sandy found out that her daddy wasn’t such a big shot after all?’

Porter paused. The traffic lights had switched to green, but he didn’t feel like putting the gear back into drive. Behind him, someone was starting to hoot. ‘What is it you want?’ he said finally.

‘There’s someone else we want you to get in touch with for us,’ said Layla. ‘Another man you came across during your time in the Regiment.’

‘Who?’

‘An Irishman … from the bad old days.’